The car hit the grass verge with a thud.
Henry punched Verner in the face.
Verner pulled the trigger and a deafening bullet was discharged, burying itself somewhere near the accelerator pedal, miraculously missing Henry’s legs.
The car bounced upwards on the grass and Henry fell back against his door which burst open. He found himself spinning out of the hole where the door once was, then hitting the ground hard and rolling over and over across the tarmac towards the first lane of the motorway. Everything was confused, as if he was in a vortex. He cracked his head, but then rolled up on to his knees, looking back at the car wondering what the fuck had just happened.
Stuck up on the grass verge, it’s nose pointed skywards, it’s front end was crushed and it’s front wheels were stuck out at an ugly angle.
Verner was running away. He had vaulted the fence by the roadside and was running across farmland. He seemed unhurt.
Henry had stood up without realizing it. He staggered backwards a few steps, knew this was a bad thing, so stumbled across the hard shoulder, hopefully reducing the chance of being flattened by an HGV.
He watched Verner running towards woodland.
Henry did not have the energy to give chase, but he did not need to bother. The helicopter was back overhead and four police cars pulled in behind him, uniformed officers alighting. One was a dog man, whom Henry recognized. His name was Tim and his dog was called Lancon Griff — officially. Unofficially the German Shepherd was known as Fang for obvious reasons, which, Henry prayed, would soon become apparent to the man who had just put him through a mini-version of hell.
The hard shoulder of the M55 east-bound became the temporary home of the police search operation to capture the runaway. There were now eight police vehicles of varying types parked on the red tarmac area, all with blue lights flashing.
There had been a drugs raid in Blackpool that morning, maintaining the Constabulary’s policy of ‘a raid a day’ and the Support Unit officers who had carried it out had been redeployed to the motorway to assist with the manhunt. About fifteen officers under the command of an inspector were being briefed at the top of the grass verge.
They were being told that the man had run across several fields and had gone to ground in Medlar Woods, less than a mile from the motorway. The helicopter had lost him in the trees and was maintaining a holding position over the area. They were pretty sure he was still in there.
The plan was to form a loose cordon around the perimeter of the woods, consisting of armed and unarmed personnel, then to enter the woods with two unleashed dogs, their handlers and armed back-up, to quarter the woods systematically and flush the bastard out. (The word ‘bastard’ was used in the briefing.)
Henry was sitting in the back of a Support Unit personnel carrier amidst their equipment of plastic riot shields and door-opening equipment. He was clutching his side whilst sipping a cup of hot tea, thoughtfully provided by one of the officers. They had called an ambulance for him which seemed to be taking forever to arrive.
He had called home to apprise Kate of the horrible mess he’d got himself into. Whilst concerned and distressed, she was also seething with him. Henry could see all his good work at home crumbling away. He would have a lot of rebuilding to do, he thought. Not good. It was a thought almost as painful as his cut.
He lay back across a bench seat and closed his eyes, wishing he had stayed firmly in bed, wrapped in Kate’s arms. He groaned with a mixture of pain and stupidity. He had got everything he deserved.
The officers moved down into the fields beyond the motorway, then spread out as they approached Medlar Woods. It took another fifteen minutes for them to encircle the woods. Then the dogs were set loose.
Verner was deep undercover, watching the approach of the officers from the motorway. He wore a smile on his face as he thought of the way in which his captive, Henry Christie, had managed to get the better of him. The motherfucker, he thought, picturing Henry. I gave him half a chance and he took it. Verner uttered a cynical laugh.
He had not dropped the pistol, but apart from that, a knife and one other weapon, he had no other means of attack or defence.
There were armed cops coming towards him. Lots of them. Each armed with a pistol — a Glock — and an MP5 machine pistol. And there were two dogs, which frightened Verner more than the armed cops. And at least a dozen normal cops dressed in overalls.
He was outgunned and out manoeuvred, particularly with the damned helicopter hovering up there.
But he wasn’t beaten yet.
The ambulance arrived eventually and, because they were facing east down the motorway, they took Henry to Preston Royal Infirmary. After the triage nurse told him he was nowhere near the top of the treatment list and applied a tatty dressing to the wound with instructions to keep it held on tight, he was then directed to the waiting room. He saw, and nearly cried with frustration, that the digital display in the waiting room said it would be at least three hours before he would be seen by a doctor. He sauntered to the newsagent shop and bought himself a bottle of water, a Mars bar and a newspaper, heading back to the waiting room to bed in for a long, mind-numbing wait on a plastic, bottom-numbing chair. He called Kate from the payphone — the battery on his mobile had given up — and spent some time reassuring her he would be OK. She was frantic and wanted to come to him, but he fended her off, saying he could cope. . although he wasn’t too sure how he would be getting home. Just as he’d set off in the ambulance, a recovery truck had arrived on scene to rescue the very sorry-looking Ford Mondeo from the grass verge. He hadn’t had the heart to tell Kate what a mess the car was in. He told her he would ring later, when he knew more. Then she could come and collect him, but in the meantime he would be fine by himself.
In the waiting room a shroud of weariness engulfed him. His aches and pains were ebbing, thanks to the paracetamols doled out in triage, but the feeling of stupidity was like a tide coming in.
He unfolded the newspaper and flipped to the back page.
The dogs were eager. Lancon Griff and Lancon Bart were both highly experienced tracker dogs who knew their business well. They moved into the trees, controlled by their handlers, each dog alert, ready and sensing the possibility of flesh and bone. Juicy.
Their handlers were kitted out with ballistic armour, as were the firearms officers accompanying them.
They were as tense as the dogs.
But not quite as tense as the man hidden deep in the undergrowth, watching their relentless approach. He was being hunted, a change of perspective from what was his usual state of affairs. He was normally the hunter. He was the one who normally scared people. But he knew he was trapped in here. The crew of the helicopter had seen him enter the woods. They knew he was in there somewhere and they had all day to find him.
Verner knew he had to take a risk if he wanted to escape. Slowly he raised himself on to one knee, dug his toe into the soft ground and launched himself upwards and began running through the trees.
The dogs spotted him, howling with delight, whilst behind them their handlers shouted instructions which the dogs probably never heard.
Fang locked on to his target with all the speed, accuracy and tenacity of a Patriot missile. Bart was twenty metres behind him. Fang’s head went down, ears back, as sleek as that missile, instinctively veering round objects such as tree trunks, flying over underbrush, his eyes wide with blood-scented anticipation.
Verner ran.
Fang closed in.
Suddenly Verner stopped dead in his tracks, spun on his heels and pointed the pistol at the onrushing canine.